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ghost-proofbaby · 7 months

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“If you get caught, I’ll let you rot in that cell. I swear it.” “I don’t think you would,” he chirps confidently, finally dropping her hand and wrestling his own out of her grip, “I think you’d miss me too much, dear.” “Thinking isn’t a good look on you, Astarion.” She probably would. Miss him, that is.

summary: aruna finally figures out what her class is - a wild magic sorcerer. now, if only she had a spell to make babysitting astarion easier.

wc: 4k+

warnings: continued memory loss, but beyond that, no real warnings. just astarion being a menace per usual <3

a/n: this chapter is boring but necessary okay i swear it's crucial. I SWEAR.

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“This is useless.”

“You’re being impatient.”

“No, I’m being realistic.”

Stubborn, more like it. But Aruna would sooner bite her own tongue off than admit that to Gale as he hovers over her.

She’s spent the first precious hours of morning annoying him, in all fairness. The moment she knew he was awake as well, she’d practically ambushed him, inquiring about those books he kept going on about. She was about to call him a liar, seemingly forcing his hand to admit that the whole bag of holding charade was pure bullshit, when he’d just motioned for her to take a seat on one of the plush cushions on the porch of his tent.

And then he’d brought up a stack of books that sparked a headache in Aruna like no other.

The punishment fits the crime. She’d asked for this.

“How far have you gotten?” Gale is reading his own book, sitting in a far more comfortable chair across from her. The others are still sleeping – well, the others minus Astarion. He’d been missing from the only other bedroll still situated by the long-dead fire when she’d awoken, and neither her nor Gale had witnessed his arrival due to their noses being stuck in these damned books, “You’re allowed to skim, you know. I don’t recommend it, but…”

“If I have to read another word about wizards, I might paint the ground with my brains,” she flatly notes, turning the open pages she’d been glancing over his way.

It was a book about wizards. Her complaint is fairly mute when all things are considered. She knows it – she won’t admit it.

He entertains her by leaning forward to squint at the text, clearly not reading it properly as he dismisses it far too quickly. He probably already has the book memorized, the bastard. “I’m fairly certain you’re not a wizard, so you can move on.”

She’s ready to whack him over the head with the book in her hands.

No one would stop her. Astarion was back in camp, sitting not far off and glancing in their direction with a permanent expression of amusement, and she knows he wouldn’t stop her.

“If I’m not a wizard, what am I?”

“Keep reading. Figure it out.”

“Gale. I swear, with the tadpoles as my witness, I’ll chuck this book at your head,” Astarion’s snort is hard to miss as she whispers the threat, “And I don’t need magic to do that.”

Gale’s eyes widen as though he fully believes her, and he’s finally processing the fact that the only witness to the violence would be the one person in camp who staunchly prefers Aruna to him. “We do not need to resort to violence, my friend. You were the one who woke me up-”

“I didn’t wake you up.”

“-Demanding the books so you could figure out what you are,” Gale finishes as though Aruna never interrupted him, finally standing and walking over to her, “Would you like my expert opinion, though?”

“Expert?” she scoffs, “My Gods, I’ve chosen the largest ego in camp to educate me. I’m a fool.”

“You are,” Astarion adds from several feet away, “Although we didn’t need your first questionable decision of the day to know that, my dear.”

She finally turns her body fully to face the elf, “I have more than one book, don’t forget that.”

He smiles the widest she had witnessed yet, and her attention catches on those glinting teeth. She’d never noticed just how sharp his canines were.

But he’s quick to sheath them with his lips, offering her no more than a fleeting glance.

“Based on what I’ve seen in combat, your aim leaves something to be desired.”

She wishes someone else was awake. Someone like Shadowheart, who might more directly take her side and even the playing field.

“Maybe with the books,” she narrows her eyes, “But I’m not above resorting to magic against you.”

He’s about to chirp something back. She can see the playful look, the exhilaration he gets every time she indulges him. Whether it be in conversations about death, or just his teases – he seems to thrive under her attention. But Gale interrupts them both, snatching the book on wizards out of her hand before replacing it with a different one. Something just as hefty and painfully thick, the leather bound cover smooth in her palms.

“Read that, you might find it of interest,” Gale tells her, smiling differently from Astarion. Whereas Astarion seemingly enjoys existing solely to annoy her, Gale is trying to be genuinely helpful. He has endless patience for her, even as she’s lashing out.

“What is it-”

“Just read it,” Gale begs, still holding more composure than her, “Trust me. I beg of you.”

Her mouth snaps shut, and the animal inside of her is quick to cozy up to the idea.

Trusting him. And trusting Astarion. The thing inside of her is quick to gleam at the idea, no hesitation as it purrs at her to do so. She hates the contentment that resides beneath her irritated surface at this moment – the way she’s warm all over again, simply by lounging about the camp with these two strangers. It feels normal; it feels like home.

The camp hadn’t felt very homely to her the first night, but it’s starting to now. Even as she shoots another warning glare in Astarion’s direction when he breathes out in a way too similar to covering up a laugh.

“I think Astarion should join us. Make himself of use rather than just being a spectator.”

Her words wipe the smile right off his face, a look of disbelief replacing it.

“Oh, no – no, no, no,” he’s the most serious she’s seen him yet, vigorously shaking his head, “Absolutely not. I have absolutely no desire to go through our friendly wizard’s library, thank you very much.”

“You say that now, Astarion,” Gale raises a finger, waggling it kindly in Astarion’s direction, “But I’m sure a day will come where you change your mind.”

“And I can assure you, you will wither away awaiting that day.”

Now, it’s Aruna’s turn to snort.

The banter between the three of them is coming easily. Flow of jokes and snide remarks are easier than breathing, and Aruna wonders if a quick tongue was an attribute from her life before all this or simply the two men bringing out the worst in her.

They quiet down long enough for Aruna to finally begin to properly read the book presented to her. It’s just as wordy as the book on wizards, just as dreadfully boring, but she soon gathers the subject for the literature: sorcerers.

When Astarion had jokingly called her a bard, even without any knowledge of what being a bard had entailed, it had fit her all wrong. A baggy hand-me-down that she couldn’t situate comfortably over her skin. Too many gaps in what she had experienced in their adventures and her experiments with her powers, and too much restriction on all that she didn’t know of herself. But sorcerer? The more she learns, the more the title sinks in against her bones and fits every curve of who she is as it compliments the magic beneath her skin in a calming fashion, the more she understands why Gale had handed her the book.

It fits. It fits very, very well.

No one chooses sorcery; the power chooses the sorcerer.

She reads over the line several times. Her eyes pass over it once, and then jump back to the beginning of the sentence, as if reading a fourth and fifth time might make the words hold any less importance.

It fits.

Her magic doesn’t feel like something she handpicked for herself; not in her journey since the beach and possibly not even in her lifetime before all of these troubles. It’s as if it’s always existed. It’s almost comforting, a lingering relic of who she is but can’t remember that she feels the urge to cling to.

“You think I’m a sorcerer.”

She means to phrase it as a question, but there’s a finality to her tone as she looks up to Gale. His proud smile says it all.

Astarion can’t seem to help himself, finally wandering over to them properly, “A sorcerer? I never thought I’d live to see the day a wizard would openly accept the company of one. What a little miracle our small trope is becoming.”

Gale fully ignores him, “It fits. Especially with your outburst of magic in front of the grove – you seem to specifically be a wild magic sorcerer. I could be wrong, of course, but… well…”

“It fits,” she repeats his words, her thoughts, “Is it… Is it something I was born with?”

Her callous exterior, the shields of all her jabs and taunts, has melted away. Curiosity has its grip on her as she places the book down into her lap, choosing to stare down at her palms instead with fascination.

Palms that have conjured magic. Palms that had sent off missiles and flames alike with little effort. Her magic was a part of her – not a gift, not a skill. Just her.

“Usually, yes,” Gale shrugs, “You can certainly keep the book and read more on it, if you’d like. Most are born with it, few encounter forces which thrust it upon them. It’s hard to tell given your… condition.”

Her memory loss. The reason she’s so clueless, sitting on the ground outside of Gale’s tent, a spine of a book pressing into her crossed ankles as she sits criss-cross.

“Just to be clear – the condition you’re referring to is the mysterious lack of memories our dear sorcerer has? Not the tadpole?” Astarion takes a seat on the log not far off, keeping his distance but still finding a way to wiggle his way into the moment.

She can’t even be mad. She’s still looking down at her palms, focusing on that hum that comes from within.

“The tadpole wouldn’t give her these powers,” Gale asserts sternly.

She’s not even listening.

She understands it now – Gale’s hungry mind. The heavy book in her lap is no longer a source of inconvenience, but a way to learn about herself. Even if they’re wrong, she aches to know more. She wants to understand the world, to learn as much as she can. Her companions have been firm in their optimism that her memory loss isn’t permanent, but they can’t guarantee it. For all Aruna knows, this is her one chance to begin to catch up to everyone else’s knowledge.

“What else do you have books on?” she asks suddenly, looking up between the two men before her eyes dart to the large stack of books, “Do you have any more I can borrow?”

“About sorcerers?”

“About anything.”

Something clicks into place. Softly, silently. Aruna doesn’t understand how she got into this mess, but knows she must not have had a choice based on the recounts from her fellow companions. Not regarding the tadpole, not regarding her presence on that ship, not regarding the gaps in all her memories.

But she has a choice now. She can sit and be idle, or she can do something. Learn, educate, chase away the shadows of cluelessness until she’s filled in all the gaps in her knowledge.

Astarion’s scowl at her eagerness is a small price to pay for the promise of that.

—

“Tch,” Gods, Aruna is quickly growing tired of that sound, “We need to focus on finding this Zorru. We need to learn all that we can regarding the nearest creche.”

“Lae’zel, I promise you, we are looking for Zorru,” Aruna scans the bustling grove, far more full of moving bodies than it had been the afternoon prior, “But they’re not exactly wearing name tags.”

Aruna is nearly overwhelmed by it all. She’d gathered up her party this morning with a goal in mind; they needed to keep chasing after any and all trails that would lead to a healer.

Besides, she had Astarion by her side now. As long as she kept him well and alive, she considered that mysterious letter and its confusing instructions satiated, no longer a distraction from what she needed to accomplish. Once she rids them of the tadpole, she’ll press further into the issue of just why some random stranger has insisted she save the thorn in her side.

“Perhaps we make the suggestion to their leader you’ve been avoiding,” Astarion says in a bored tone, hand reaching out for a crate of fruit off to the side of the entrance they’ve stalled in, “It certainly would make our lives easier.”

She’s quick to reach out her own hand, slapping him on the wrist to prevent whatever thievery he thought he was about to stealthily get away with. He looks at her in shock that quickly morphs to narrowed eyes and a set scowl.

She doesn’t care. She has one job beyond all this – keep him alive. It’ll be hard to do that if he’s locked away in some prison cell.

“I’ll talk to Zevlor later,” she promises to no one in particular. She was avoiding the tiefling leader, only showing enough interest in him this morning to catch his name through eavesdropping. It had been easy enough with how loudly some of these tieflings spoke.

Gale is the only one trying to be remotely helpful, standing with his hands on his hips as he surveys the area with her, “Maybe we should ask around? Someone surely knows this Zorru. It’ll save us quite a bit of heartache, not to mention time.”

Time. The one thing that didn’t seem to be on their side, emphasized by the wiggling she feels within her skull. The sooner they found Zorru, the sooner they would find this creche, and the closer they’d be to one of their few options for ridding themselves of their most impending of problems.

“Indeed we should,” Lae’zel agrees fairly easily, which shocks Aruna until she realizes that the gith has taken the suggestion as a showing of slack on her leash, quickly choosing to stride in the direction of a few nearby tieflings.

Aruna almost takes a step after her, but Gale is quicker. He follows without hesitation, shooting a glance over his shoulder that was somewhere between reassurance and worry.

The message is loud and clear, regardless: he’ll watch over Lae’zel, as long as Aruna keeps an eye on Astarion.

“You two have no need to babysit us, you know,” Astarion is still scowling, and she’s beginning to realize just how strong of a grudge he can hold when he doesn’t get his way.

“No?” she questions, quickly honing in on his once-again wandering hand. She steps forward and wraps her finger around his wrist, bringing it up into the space between them in a scolding manner, “Then stop trying to commit crimes, Astarion. I don’t have enough gold in my pack to bribe or bail you out should you get caught.”

“We need supplies for camp.”

“We can worry about supplies before we head back.”

“Why are you so worried about me getting caught?” he suddenly asks, a soft smile beginning to spread.

And- no. It’s not a soft smile. It’s downright mischievous, as though he’s accomplished something-

She looks down at the hand she isn’t holding. Timed just perfectly enough to see him stowing away a damn apple into his pocket.

“Astarion,” she hisses, reaching out to take the contraband.

He stops her with ease. The hand that had just skillfully grabbed the fruit without getting caught by any bystanders grabs her wrist in a similar fashion to how she holds his right hand, tilting his head mockingly, “No need to cause a scene. That’s a sure way to get caught.”

He’s downright insufferable. She wonders if there would be any consequences to doing the exact opposite of saving him. He’s already indulged her that he admires decapitation, but perhaps he’ll rethink his choices when she takes an axe to him.

And if the warm thrum igniting in her chest as a reaction to his touch is anything to go off of, there probably would be internal consequences, and she’d probably regret it instantly.

“If you get caught, I’ll let you rot in that cell. I swear it.”

“I don’t think you would,” he chirps confidently, finally dropping her hand and wrestling his own out of her grip, “I think you’d miss me too much, dear.”

“Thinking isn’t a good look on you, Astarion.”

She probably would. Miss him, that is.

He’s a pest, but he’s quickly become her pest. For some unknown reason, he’s taken to clinging to her side, and his consistent words meant to get a rise out of her are like a blanket of comfort. Of normalcy.

They have uninvited visitors in their minds, not a single one of them particularly familiar with this terrain, and Aruna doesn’t have a single memory of herself. But she has Astarion – she has his petty commentary and twitchy hands. She hasn’t had to doubt that once in the days she’s known him.

She doesn’t even have to glance over her shoulder when she walks away; she knows that he’s following her, her own personal shadow as she finally begins to walk deeper into the Grove. Gale and Lae’zel are somewhere, hopefully making more progress than these two, but Aruna can’t spot them as she takes a new path. She takes a right rather than left and completely surpasses all of the small stalls they had perused the day before.

“Am I crazy, or is that ox’s eyes following us?”

She doesn’t give Astarion’s words much thought as they walk past the animals, tossing over her shoulder without hesitation, “You’re crazy.”

“I’m being serious,” he insists, face crumpled in between annoyance and weariness as he glares at the ox at the very end of the fence. “It’s- It’s looking at me as if it knows something.”

She sighs as she turns to him, walking to where he’s planted himself. His arms are crossed, and it’s almost comical – he’s clearly threatened under some animal’s gaze.

“I really don’t think-”

And then she makes eye contact with the animal.

Oh. Oh, Gods, Astarion is right. Whereas the other oxen are looking about mindlessly, there’s something in this ox’s eyes as it stares at them. A certain intelligence that she can place immediately.

“What was it you said to me earlier?” he mocks, “Thinking isn’t a good look on you, was it?”

She’s too preoccupied with the chill running up her spine as she holds eye contact to care about Astarion’s current attitude. She sidesteps to the left, and the ox’s eyes follow. She repeats the action to the right, nearly bumping into Astarion, and they still follow.

“Would you please watch where you’re-”

“You were right,” she cuts him off as she straightens up to look at him, “You were right, and something about that ox is off.”

He wears the smug look of a silent told you so. She sort of hates it, but it’s the least of their issues right now.

When she takes a step back, her hand is already reaching out to grab at the sleeve of Astarion’s shirt, tugging him to follow her. “We should probably just… leave it.”

And there’s a whole other layer of oddness at play. Because reaching out for Astarion, trying to keep him close, feels like a second nature to her. It’s not something she subconsciously has to make an effort at – she needs no reminder from some letter in order to feel that pull, that need, to drag him away from danger. Her survival instincts didn’t just apply to herself. They applied to him as well.

“Leave it?” he scoffs in disbelief, “Isn’t our goal today to get some answers about this Nettie and our parasites? What if this ox knows something?”

She tugs a little harder on his sleeve, stepping back again, “It’s an ox. A strange ox, but still just an animal. We can deal with it later.”

There’s a finality in her tone that makes him finally follow. He lets her tug him away, and he doesn’t even comment when her fingers stay pinched on the end of the fabric of his sleeve.

The ox can just be added to her to do list.

Along with the Devil that Wyll has enlisted their help in hunting. Along with reading more of the books Gale has allowed her to borrow. Along with figuring out her tent situation.

As she walks the narrow trail with Astarion, leading them past a cart of goods that she deliberately puts herself beside rather than him, she almost wants to laugh out loud at the ridiculous list. Not out of joy, but out of terror. It was terrifying, almost comical, just how much responsibility she had taken to shouldering. Mere days before she had woken up entirely clueless on a beach, and now she had somehow managed to be the appointed leader of the oddest group of adventurers that has likely ever graced these lands.

She understands Astarion’s frustration. And Lae’zel’s.

“Do you think it’s a bad idea?” she blurts out just as they pass by a small make-shift stand, seemingly being run by a few children.

He raises an eyebrow, glancing at her as she steps off the main path and closer to the shadows, taking a moment so they could face each other.

“The creche,” she finally clarifies, subconsciously chewing on the inside of her cheek, “Do you think having this creche that Lae’zel talked about as our backup plan is a bad idea?”

“I think it’s certainly an idea,” he looks a bit confused, as if he’s attempting to unravel her motivations string by string only to come up empty handed, “Why do you care what I think?”

It’s her turn to look baffled, “Why wouldn’t I?”

Letter aside, strange and ominous instructions to save him aside, she’d still want his opinion. He’s a part of the group, same as Gale or Shadowheart. She wants to hear his opinion on the matters just as much as she does theirs.

He seems to be a bit speechless at that, mouth opening and closing a few times before his brows furrow.

“I… You’re right,” and just as quickly as the slight insecurity had shone through, it evaporates, “My opinion is quite valuable. I think that having the creche as a backup plan is smart. But I do appreciate that we’re seeking out help from this Nettie first. That entire purification ordeal that the gith has been rattling on about doesn’t sound very pleasant.”

His approval is the oddest of salves on her worrying self-doubts. She shouldn’t need to know that he agrees with her decisions in order to feel secure in them.

It’s still nice.

“It really doesn’t,” her eyes wander from his intense gaze, narrowing in on the children behind the table not far off. There’s two of them, bickering quietly over something, “But if this entire plot with Nettie doesn’t work out…”

She trails off, but they seem to continue to be on the same wavelength as he finishes the thought, “Then it’s our only choice.”

All she can do is nod. Exactly.

A commotion sounds nearby, down a set of stone steps that they’d yet to make their way down. A group of people, both tieflings and others that were just hidden by a large stone arch, are full on bickering.

This feeling of deja vu is less foreign and not nearly as scary. It feels like the fight between Zevlor and the human boy all over again.

She opens her mouth, but Astarion is already sighing, “I don’t suppose there’s any way I could possibly dissuade you from going down there, is there?”

Her mouth closes, head rolling so she can sheepishly smile at him. She awaits the disapproval, the attitude, the fighting.

She receives none of it.

Only another defeated sigh, a quick shake of his head as he succumbs, “Right.”

His hand swings out between them, motioning down the steps. When she hesitates, he waves it a second time, impatience seeping into the motion. She’s still frozen in disbelief that he caved so easily, accepting what she’s about to do without a single curse or angry mumble of a bleeding heart.

“Well? Lead on. We haven’t got all day.”

She takes the first step, and her shadow follows.

TAGLIST: @emmaisgonnacry @writinginthetwilight @moonmunson

#ghost's stories #astarion ancunin #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion fanfic #bg3 #bg3 fanfic #the moon will sing #over on ao3 we officially have guesses for time travel aspect: elven reincarnation or god!gale #i musn't speak but #who knows? certainly not me #ALSO i hope those tags work for y'all. i've started handtyping out my taglists to see if they'd start working again waaaah

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